


The Man On The Hill

by chrissy2



Category: Ivan The Terrible (1944)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mourning, Paranoia, Poison, age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-03 04:23:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13333419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrissy2/pseuds/chrissy2
Summary: When Fyodor and his father met the tsar - secretly and scandalously in the privacy of a mourning room - he wasn't so sure he was looking at the same man.





	The Man On The Hill

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing and I get no money.

  1. **I**



When Fyodor's father found out, his reaction was mixed: Incredulous, some disgust, some concern, then eventual indifference with a tint of pride.  _I suppose I have always known. About you. You had stars in your eyes. And your voice - was undoubtedly heated._

Fyodor couldn't deny it.

 _You best be discreet, my boy, as difficult as that is for you,_ father Basmanov advised. _J_ _ust like me. My adoration for the tsar is and always has been worn on my sleeve._ He raises his fist to his breast.  _Down with the Boyars and the rest who oppose Russia's anointed!_

 

**II**

He did not know it at the time because he was young and impressionable (and always might as well be, being a dog's son and all), but he was just a name to his father, an image thrown at the tsar's feet. He did not mind. He went along with it. Who was to deny Fate, after all? But he was terrified. This was the demigod that he had the privilege of seeing during the siege of Kazan. It might have been the hill he was standing on, the heavenly sky behind him, and the sunlight that made him look so powerful.  _Look, my boy. It is the Tsar, the Tsar of all of Russia,_ and he felt the stars fill him and shine through his gaze. 

**_"The Tsar..."_  **

 

**III**

When his father took him to see the Tsar face to face - secretly and scandalously, in the privacy of a mourning room - he wasn't so sure he was looking at the same man. He almost didn't recognize him. He was nearing to thirty, and yet he seemed to have aged beyond that point. His beard was longer, his hair rougher with a tint of the white scare, brow knotted and furrowed, and eyes as heavy as an old horse's. 

Perhaps the sunlight on that day really was too bright.

Perhaps his desparate mind sought to find some kind of hope, a figure worth admiring in that tiring, dreadful battle. 

Even so, Fyodor stood silent and starry-eyed, barely blinking in the consuming haze. He couldn't quite pin point what he was feeling at that moment. 

_You must build a ring of iron around yourself, my Lord..._

Fyodor could not take his eyes off of the half-god-half-man he saw on the hill on that day in battle. The words spewing from his flattering father's mouth came out as mere mumbles and grumbles in his obliviousness. Alexei Basmanov being described as a dog was perfect (among other things), because in that moment, Fyodor was a pup being thrown at the tsar's feet and the tsar responded to Alexei's gift by petting his dark curls most tenderly.

He thought he might whimper.

 

**IV**

The boy stood on his toes and took a peek at the dead queen before her return to the Earth. Such a lovely face, the Mother of Russia had. Perhaps she was too sweet to be in such a state of affairs, too pure for this dysfunctional day and age of Man. Perhaps her untimely passing was for her own good, but Fyodor dare not say that in the tsar's presence.

Fyodor felt like he was having similar allusions from before. All the white in her robes and headdress seemed to make her glow the brightest of lights. Anastasia looked liked she had an entire halo that was not just on her head, but her entire body. He wondered if she still glowed when the blackest of black coffin was closed in around her.

 

**V**

Following and listening to his every move seemed to be sensible at the time. It was a troubling time and the tsar's days were numbered. Fyodor felt he had to keep an eye on him. He was as miserably mortal as any man - hurting from lovesickness and fear of abandonment, crippled by paranoia. But this man was the only one that stood against the boyars, and the boyars were corrupt. Someone had to do it. Someone had to break the chain. He sent from God and who was to deny Fate, after all? 

There still must have been some godliness about him if just looking at him made Fyodor feel this way,  ** _paralyzed, longing, aching._**

The tsar's mind must have really started to go, then. He must have started hearing her voice, because he watched him run from his throne and through the corridors and into her bed like a shadow, throwing his entire being down onto the sheets. He was mourning her, so; his queen, his Anastasia, paralyzed, longing, aching.  _My only friend. Anastasia. My queen._

 

**VI**

The little pup couldn't remember what the tsar had said to him at the time, something about how he _had such boyish eyes_ and _how he wished he could have stayed boyish because his boyhood had been taken from him,_ and he had reached out to pet his hair most tenderly again. Fyodor's haze turned his words into gibberish and his eyes roamed down to the anointed lips.

He stood on his toes and the stars filled his body again. The kiss was a bit sloppy, their lips forced together awkwardly. The tsar was a tall, tall man. Much taller than him. He was surprised he could reach them.

 

**VII**

_Let this cup pass from me._

_It won't. Although, some cups are full of poison._

 

**VIII**

The long, slender fingers that caressed his hair mere moments ago were now stinging him. And the lips that spoke endearing things, tempting the kiss, now spoke with thunder:

**"You dare permit yourself to touch the tsar as you please."**

The slap had already thrown him down to the floor, at his master's feet, where he belonged, and he sunk even lower, putting his weight on his knees and letting his forehead meet the floor. "Forgive me."

"You dare violate a widower."

"Do what you like with me, Sire. I'll die a thousand deaths for it."

There's a silence that feels like a heavy blanket and it confuses Fyodor. He counts to five in his mind before slowly lifting his head to see the tsar scoff: "How can you say such things. Such foolish things."

"I angered you."

"You really are a boy." The demigod turns and heads for the small doorway leading back to her bed, to his Anastasia. Fyodor wondered if the sheets still smelled like her. "Get off the floor."

 

**IX**

Father Phillip was alone when Fyodor came to see him in private.

_What is it that troubles you, young Basmanov._

_I have been having unholy thoughts._

_What such thoughts, my boy?_

_I only ask for your blessing._

_Are these thoughts really so harmful? You seem like a nice boy. I hate to see you conflicted._

_I cannot speak of them._

The actual purpose of meeting Father Phillip was more of a sinister curiosity. He wanted to know what it felt like to talk to a dead man before he was dead.

 

**X**

_Fedor. Come here._ _How do I know your true intentions?_

_I don't understand._

_How do I know you are really on my side, and that you're not some temptress to make me weak and vulnerable to my enemies, hm?_

_Tempted by a mere pup? What business have I with tempting. I am yours, Sire. I watch you for your own safety. You risk your life opposing the Boyars, but someone needs to watch you. You are not as alone as you think._

_A little pup to watch me._

_I am of Basmanov. I am a dog. I am my father's son._


End file.
